Darby Read Online Free Page A

didn’t experience a bad side effect. Then after I showed it to my daddy, I asked him if I should take it to Mr. Salter, and my daddy didn’t say much . . . so I did. I did it on Friday, and Mr. Salter must not’ve known about the toads, ’cause he decided to put my story in this week. So now I’m already a newspaper girl, and just a few days ago I didn’t even know anything about being one. It’s like I was supposed to be a girl writer all along. Doesn’t it seem like that?”
    Evette made the ugliest face I’ve ever seen. “Your daddy must’ve gone and asked that man to put it in the newspaper, ’cause nobody can write a good article in one try. My aunt went off to college to learn how to do it.”
    “My daddy didn’t have anything to do with me getting in the paper. Besides, maybe writing’s not easy for a lot of people, but it is for me.” Sashaying my head, I added, “Guess I’m just naturally skillful.”
    “Darby, you ain’t natural at all,” she said, throwing a twig at my feet.
    I swiped up a handful of dirt and poured it on top of her splitting shoes. “You’re just mad ’cause I’m already a newspaper girl, and that’s what you wanted to be.”
    “I still wanna be one, and I ain’t mad,” Evette announced, standing.
    Looking at her, I noticed that the biggest, blackest ant was zigzagging up the middle of her dress. “You got an ant on you,” I told her, knowing it would scare her something awful.
    Evette shrieked and swiped at the ant like it was gonna can-opener her stomach.
    “If you’re so smart,” I snipped, “you should know that black ants don’t bite.”
    “It don’t matter, ’cause I just don’t like ’em. Maybe . . . maybe your daddy didn’t say nothing to the newspaper man, but the only reason you’re getting your story printed is on account of who you are. That’s all. It don’t even matter if I can write better than you, ’cause my daddy don’t own the Carmichael Dry Goods, and my daddy ain’t a white man who’s got his own house and farm and all that.”
    Standing up, I tried to make her feel dumb. “Evette, you haven’t even read what I wrote, so you don’t know if it’s any good.” I swished my notebook at her. “You know what? I was gonna let you see it, but now I guess you’ll have to go buy a newspaper yourself.”
    “I ain’t gonna go buy that fool thing.” Turning away, she thumped off toward her house.
    I called after her, “Your whole family can’t afford a newspaper, is why you won’t buy one!”
    Evette spun around. Pointing at me, which my mama says is just about the rudest thing you can do, she shouted, “Darby, you smell like cow poo!”
    Fearful, I sniffed myself before screeching back, “I do not!”
    Last year, when I caught the measles, my eyes got so weak I had to lay in bed with all the curtains plastered shut and the lights off. Everyone was nervous that I was gonna go blind like Great-Uncle Harvey. I wasn’t scared, though. Back then I didn’t know the measles were what broke his eyes. Instead, I fretted that Evette and Beth had forgotten about me. I didn’t know their mamas were keeping them away so they wouldn’t get sick. The whole time my body was coated with red dots, I worried I’d dropped out from their thoughts, which made me feel worse than itching and coughing. It wasn’t till I got better that I realized they still wanted to be friends.
    The thing is, I never have forgotten how lonely it was in my dark bedroom. It was awful, that’s for sure. Anyways, after Evette yelled that I smelled like cow poo, I began to feel the same lonely way. Scuffing toward Ellan, I wondered if we’d ever play dress-up again. Over my shoulder, her tiny shack seemed like it was floating above the dry cotton stalks, and I wondered if she was already making plans to play with somebody who wouldn’t act superior. Every few steps, I stopped and stared and imagined that I could still see the dust clouds her heels had puffed